


Sessions With Madness

by wouldyouliketoseemymask



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Gen, Interviews, Mental Institutions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:10:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wouldyouliketoseemymask/pseuds/wouldyouliketoseemymask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An interview with Jonathan Crane is never simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The other day I was listening to Scarecrow's interview tapes from Arkham Asylum, and I thought it would be interesting to explore what an interview session with Nolan-verse Scarecrow would be like. The result was this fic. I had intended for this to be a one-shot, but as it grew longer and longer I decided to split it into multiple chapters instead.

For years, Dr. Norman Perkins has been the victim of a most grievous injustice. 

When Perkins first started his tenure as a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum, he envisioned an illustrious career; sessions with the asylum's most notorious criminals, book deals, talk show appearances, the works. 

In truth, Perkins cared very little about his patients or their recovery. He _had_ cared, in the beginning, as a wide-eyed student with ambitions and a desire to change the world. He'd entered the psychiatry field because of a genuine interest in helping others, regardless of their past actions. _It wasn't his place to judge_ , he'd thought. _Only to help._

His first year in the “real world” had changed that. The well-intentioned naivety was soon replaced with shock and horror when he began to interview inmates. Sure, they'd taught him what to expect in medical school, but words that lost their meaning when printed in black and white sounded so very different when spilling out of a sneering mouth. 

And some of them sounded so _proud_ of what they'd done, almost eager to tell. 

Over time, his revulsion overpowered any preconceived notions he'd had regarding “change” or “help”. He now realized what a fool he'd been for wanting to change the world; many men had tried for hundreds of years before him, and few achieved any degree of success. 

After seeing some of the very worst that humanity has to offer, he wasn't too sure if the world was worth saving anyway. 

Perhaps there was still a glimmer of that wide-eyed student somewhere inside of him, a part of him that still cared. Nonetheless, after his first year as a psychiatrist he'd changed his goals. From then on, his one desire was to make his wallet as fat as his ego. He figured a job at Arkham--a prestigious institution with access to super-criminals—would be a one-way ticket to his success. Get in, get a book deal, get out. 

He hadn't planned on Dr. Jonathan Crane interfering with those plans. 

Creepy Crane. Always quiet and unassuming, always hiding in the corner during staff get-togethers, always careful to stay out of everyone's way. 

Always getting the best cases. 

Perkins hadn't stood a chance when Crane was around. While Perkins was dealing with the run-of-the-mill, average inmate, Crane was getting the _real good_ criminals—the ones people pay to read about. He'd watch Crane walk out of an interview room and retreat into his office for hours before heading off to another interview. No doubt he was working on a hell of a book of his own. 

Creepy, crafty Crane. 

He'd been just as shocked as the rest of the staff when Crane was revealed as Scarecrow. But while everyone else was still reeling from the shock, Perkins was piecing together a plan. When Crane was admitted as a patient, Perkins jumped at the chance to be his doctor. After all, he hadn't worked with Crane as long as the other doctors had; there would be no conflict of interest, and little past history to clout his judgment. It's what would be best for Crane, he assured the others; after all, doesn't he deserve the same quality of treatment as any other patient?

Of course, his true intentions weren't quite so noble. 

Perkins was now presented with a truly unique opportunity; he could pitch his book not only from the perspective as a doctor, but as a coworker. He'd have to embellish a few details—he'd only spoken to Crane a handful of times before his incarceration—but he wasn't too terribly concerned with ethics anyway. 

He figured Crane would be a simple enough subject to interview; the whole business with the mask was a clear-cut case of textbook split personality, certainly nothing he hadn't seen before dozens of times. All he has to do is get Crane to open up—what inspired him to study fear, what was his life like before “Scarecrow”, has he ever had his heart broken, does he loves his mother—and _cha-ching_. Any man compelled to call himself a Scarecrow and terrorize an entire city has to have one hell of a past, and if he doesn't then Perkins will give him one. People eat up misery like it's candy, and he'll make sure Crane's tale is a real tearjerker. 

Who knows, he might even get people to feel sympathy for the guy that gassed them with fear toxin. 

(break goes here)

Dr. Jonathan Crane sits in Arkham Asylum Interview Room #4, lightly drumming his fingers on the table before him. Sharp clicks emanate through the room as five fingernails meet faux wood in quick succession. _Click click click click click. Click click click_ \--

“That's enough, Mr. Crane.” The security guard's voice is booming, his tone demanding. Crane fingers halt above the table mid-tap. 

“I prefer Dr. Crane, please,” Crane says quietly, placing his hand in his lap. 

The guard lets out a harsh snort of disdain. “Yeah, okay, _Dr._ Crane. Whatever gets you through the day.”

Crane swallows his annoyance, remaining silent and unmoving. Any display of emotion is a victory to the guards; to them, their power is a game, the inmates their pawns. Crane understands this and uses it to his advantage. He does not allow himself to become angry in the guards' presence; he accepts their jeers and taunts in silence. Only when he is alone in his cell does he enjoy the luxury of anger, entertaining himself with thoughts of vengeance. 

Crane can play their game just as well as them. They interpret his silence as passiveness, as a weakness. They see him as a timid, spineless creature, meek and unworthy of their fear. Of course, they only feel this way because Crane _allows_ them to. Despite his position, Crane is always in control—not the asylum. He may follow their orders, swallow their pills, and live in their cell, but _he_ is the one with all the power. 

The brutes may feel like they can bully Jonathan Crane, but they'd _never_ dare to intimidate Scarecrow. 

The door opens and in walks Dr. Norman Perkins. He leans forward and juts out his hand toward Crane. “Good evening Dr. Crane, I'm Dr. Perkins.” Perkins grins and Crane can practically see every tooth in his mouth. He is reminded of a shark. 

Where Crane any other prisoner, the guard would have immediately instructed Perkins to not touch him, to not attempt to initiate physical contact. _He's dangerous_ , they would say. _It's for your own protection, sir._

But this is Jonathan Crane—mild, timid, meek Jonathan Crane—and so the guard barely acknowledges when Crane reaches up and shakes Perkins' hand, his fingers cold and thin against the other man's wrist. Perkins finds the sensation unpleasant and pulls his hand back as quickly as possible without coming across as rude. 

“There is no need for an introduction, Dr. Perkins. I remember you.” 

“Of course, of course. How very silly of me.” Perkins flashes the same predatory grin as before. “How are you feeling tonight, Dr. Crane?”

“Fine,” Crane replies promptly.

“Excellent.” 

Crane can detect the air of detachment in Perkins' almost-automated response. He watches as Perkins' fingers slide to the tape recorder in his coat pocket, watches as they practically twitch with anticipation as he places the recorder on the table. 

“I'm going to ask you a few questions, Dr. Crane, if that's alright with you?” 

Crane is not fooled by Perkins' forced pleasantries. His eagerness is apparent, and the hint of greed in his eyes tells Crane that it is not a thirst for knowledge that fuels his ambition, but profit. He considers Perkins a spider, spinning webs of falsities in an attempt to ensnare his prey, itching to sink his teeth in. 

Crane will play along, for now. 

“Of course, doctor.” 

Perkins smiles and presses the _record_ button.


	2. Patient Interview #1

“Patient interview one with Patient Number 7942, Jonathan Crane. Dr. Crane, could you please state your name for the record?” 

 

“Dr. Jonathan Crane.”

 

“And Dr. Crane, are you in any way, shape, or form being coerced into answering my questions against your free will?” 

 

“No, I am not.”

 

“Excellent. Are you ready to start?”

 

“By all means.”

 

Crane watches as Perkins reaches for the thick file before him with greedy hands. He can tell the man is eager to pry; Crane wonders if he'll try to maintain an air of professionalism and start off with the “easy” questions and work his way up or if he'll blurt out the _real good_ ones right off the bat.

 

“Dr. Crane, do you know why you are here?” Perkins asks, pen in hand, hovering over a notepad. 

 

_There's that spider again._

 

“I believe we both know why I am here, Dr. Perkins,” Crane replies icily. “There is no need to pretend otherwise.”

 

“Of course, Dr. Crane,” Perkins says quickly, clearly worried that he has angered Crane—not out of politeness, of course, but out of fear that he will refuse to answer any of his questions. “If you're comfortable with it, I'd like to hear the reason in your own words.” 

 

Crane wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I was deemed a danger to society and sent here to receive treatment with hopes of rehabilitation.” He slides his tongue back into his mouth, letting out a low _cluck_. “Is that a satisfactory answer?”

 

Perkins scribbles on his notepad before returning his eyes to Crane. “And do you agree with that assessment, Dr. Crane?”

 

“Does it really matter if I agree with it or not?”

 

Perkins pauses. “Well--”

 

“Why did you become a psychiatrist, Dr. Perkins? If you're _comfortable_ answering that, of course.” 

 

“With all due respect, Dr. Crane, this interview is about you, not me.” Perkins' tone takes an ever-so-slightly hard edge, as if he is trying to sound authoritative. 

 

“Perhaps if I were to learn a bit about you, I would be more willing to talk. No one wants to tell their secrets to a stranger.” 

 

Perkins shifts in his chair. “Alright. I became a psychiatrist because I wanted to help people.” 

 

The corners of Crane's mouth turn up in a small, mocking smile. “And did you?”

 

Perkins blinks and Crane's smile widens, knowing he has made the man uncomfortable. 

 

“I'd like to think so,” Perkins replies, and Crane detects a slight shake in his voice. He has unnerved him. _Good_. 

 

“How nice for you.”

 

“Why did _you_ become a psychiatrist, Dr. Crane?” Perkins asks in an attempt to steer the interview back towards Crane.

 

“To learn how the mind works,” Crane replies, his tone now flat and bored. The question is rather dull when asked without malice. 

 

“Is that a subject that has always intrigued you?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

“Ever since you were a child?”

 

 _So predictable_. Crane smirks. “Why don't you ask me what you really want to ask me, Dr. Perkins?” 

 

“I'm sorry?” 

 

He lets out a low sigh of annoyance. “Every doctor that walks through that door wants to talk to me about my childhood. Don't dance around the question. Just ask me what you _really_ want to ask me.”

 

Perkins look uncomfortable again. “Why don't you just answer my question, Dr. Crane? Please.”

 

A moment passes before Crane replies. “Yes,” he says. “I've wanted to study the human mind ever since I was a child.” 

 

“Why is it that fear in particular is of interest to you?” 

 

As soon as the question has left Perkins' lips he sees a flash of anger in Crane's eyes. His breath catches in his throat and he stiffens in his seat.

 

The anger is gone as quickly as it arrived and Crane's eyes are cold again, his face free of emotion. 

 

“I don't know, Dr. Perkins. Isn't that what I'm here to learn?” Crane's voice is calm, but Perkins feels rather than hears something hidden beneath his cool facade. 

 

Perkins nods slowly. “Yes, you are correct, Dr. Crane. I just thought that perhaps you--”

 

“What are you scared of, Norman? May I call you Norman?”

 

“I'd prefer that you didn't--”

 

“As you wish, _Dr._ Perkins. Answer my question, please.”

 

Perkins sighs. “Dr. Crane, I'm here to help you. Now, I can't help you if you keep avoiding my questions and turning them around on me. This would be much easier with your cooperation.” 

 

Crane raises his eyebrows. “So you're not going to answer my question, then?” he asks. 

 

“No,” Perkins replies firmly. “I'm here to talk about you, not me.”

 

Crane leans back in his chair, handcuffs clinking together as he moves. “Such a shame,” he says airily. He looks directly into Perkins' eyes, and Perkins feels a distinct chill down his spine. He suppresses the urge to shudder and holds Crane's gaze.

 

After a moment Crane smiles. “Perhaps next time, then.” The words are spoken with a sense of finality and Perkins knows he will not get another answer out of Crane tonight. The interview is over.

 

Perkins presses the “stop” button on his tape recorder and begins to pack his things away. When he is finished he rises from his chair and turns to the guard; the man gives him a knowing look, as if to say “he does this to everyone”, and Perkins feels a rush of embarrassment. While he hadn't expected for his first session with Crane to be fruitful, he hadn't expected... _this_. 

 

“We're done for the night, thank you,” Perkins tells the guard before turning back to Crane. “Thank you for your time tonight, Dr. Crane.” 

 

Crane says nothing in return, only stares at him with his icy blue eyes. 

 

Perkin's hand is the doorknob when Crane finally speaks.

 

“I look forward to our next session, Dr. Perkins.” 

 

The words are innocent enough, but the way Crane says them sends another chill through Perkins. He sounds...excited. Genuinely excited. 

 

Before Perkins leaves the asylum he locks his briefcase in his office. He does not take his notes home with him for review, nor does he bring his tape recorder. 

 

The chill stays with him for the rest of the night. 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3, Patient Interview #2

By the time the next appointment has arrived Perkins is scolding himself inwardly for feeling such useless trepidation. He's interviewed countless patients and inmates, the worst of the worst, and yet here he is allowing a spindly, meek,  _powerless_  man to affect him.

Ridiculous.

What is Crane going to do to him, anyway? The man's nothing without his makeshift mask and chemical set. Any threat he may have posed has been stripped away by Arkham staff, and the man who plunged Gotham into terror now spends his time sentient in his cell. He might  _sound_  creepy, but in reality he's nothing more than a failed criminal desperate to hold onto his last bit of infamy—hardly anyone he should be intimidated by.

If anything, he should  _pity_  Crane. It must be humiliating to devolve from a respected, high-ranked psychiatrist to an inmate in the asylum that once employed you. Maybe he'll try the sympathy angle this time; perhaps Crane will be more forthcoming with someone that he thinks cares about him.

It's just a matter of finding the correct tool to dissect him with, the right button to push. That's how every single one of his other patients have been, and Crane will be no exception.

And if Crane requires a little "push" in the right direction? Well, that won't be a problem.

Either way, Perkins is going to do whatever it takes to get exactly what he wants.

* * *

"Patient interview two with Patient Number 7942, Jonathan Crane. Dr. Crane, how are you feeling this evening?"

"Rather bored, until you arrived, Dr. Perkins." Crane's voice is silky and the corners of his mouth turn upwards into a small, tight smile. "I have been looking forward to our meeting."

"I'm very glad to hear that, Dr. Crane." Perkins returns Crane's smile with one of his own, and Crane struggles to keep from grimacing at his exaggerated, toothy grin.

"As far as being bored, I believe I may be able to help you with that. If you cooperate during our sessions and show that you are serious about your treatment, I'll see what I can do about getting you some privileges."

Crane raises his eyebrows. "Privileges?"

"Books in your cell, for starters. Perhaps we could even arrange supervised visits to the asylum's library." Perkins' grin widens as he looks at Crane expectantly, as if expecting him to marvel in awe at his generous offer.

Crane nods slowly. "What about pen and paper?"

"Asylum rules dictate that patients are not allowed sharp objects, but I might be able to get you a typewriter. We could even integrate it into your therapy. You could start keeping journal entries and bringing them to our appointments, for example."

Crane observes a sudden flash of greed in Perkins' eyes. Of course Perkins would love to get a hold of journals written by him; Crane imagines he'd find some use for them that have nothing to do with his "rehabilitation".

He finds everything about Perkins repulsive: his fumbling mannerisms, his poorly-constructed facade of professionalism to mask his excessive appetite, his pompous attitude, and that gruesome, hungry grin. He knows that Perkins sees him as the demure, quiet coworker who kept to himself and not as Scarecrow, and he knows that he is not afraid of him.

Not right now, anyway.

"That's very charitable of you, Dr. Perkins," Crane says.

Perkins nods. "Let's get through a couple of sessions and then we can start setting things into motion."

"Sounds fair."

Perkins opens his files and picks up his pen. "When we left off at our last meeting, we were discussing your interest in fear. What do you believe sparked your attraction to this emotion?"

Crane pauses for a moment before answering. "Everybody experiences fear, Dr. Perkins. Fear of failure. Fear of harm. Fear of death. It's a primal, basic emotion, and people will go to great lengths to not feel it."

He leans forward. "And then there are irrational fears. Phobias. Anxieties. Some people are so crippled by fear that they never leave their homes. If you can harness that raw power and inflict it on others, there is no limit to what you can do. If you control fear, you control everything."

Perkins watches Crane in awe; eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed, Crane looks positively enthralled. His words had been spoken with hushed revere, his devotion with fear akin to religious fervor. Perkins swallows, and despite his earlier resolve he can feel his bravado beginning to ebb away. A quick sideways glance reveals that today's guard feels the same sense of astonishment, his mouth hanging open in horrified shock.

Crane clears his throat and the emotion is gone, his features now calm and collected.

"If I recall correctly, I believe that I had a question of my own last time we met."

Perkins blinks, snapping himself out of his reverence.

"Dr. Crane, as I explained to you in our previous session: we're here to talk about you, not me. Now, I'm willing to divulge small details about myself if it makes you feel more comfortable speaking to me, but I feel that discussing certain things may be detrimental to your therapy."

When Crane says nothing, Perkins takes it as his cue to ask the next question.

"What frightens you, Dr. Crane?"

Crane lets out a sharp  _hah_ , startling Perkins. "Well,  _that's_  hardly a fair question," he says brusquely, "considering I just asked you the same thing and said it would be—what was it? Oh yes,  _detrimental_ to discuss." He smirks. "Sorry, doctor. I'm afraid I'm not  _comfortable_  answering that."

"If we could discuss your fears, we can work together to overcome them. Perhaps then we can get to the crux of your desire to inflict that same fear onto others."

In the spur of the moment, Perkins decides to take a gamble. He leans forward and feigns the most kind-eyed expression he can muster. "I know that you've been treated unfairly by others in the past. Misunderstood. But I just want what's best for you, Dr. Crane. I genuinely want to help you get better."

Crane holds Perkins' gaze. His eyes do not betray the seething, simmering anger he feels brewing inside of him, boiling his blood and coursing through his veins.

Nothing infuriates Crane more than pity. Pity is for the weak and the worthless. Pity is an insult. He does not want it nor does he need it,  _especially_  coming from a spineless, grotesque, half-witted, completely loathsome worm like Perkins.

He wants to reach over and wipe that smug smile off the doctor's face, tearing and clawing at him until his face is a mask of blood. He wants to wrap his fingers around Perkins' throat, watching as the doctor looks up at him with wide, terrified eyes while his final breaths leave his body. He may not have his toxin, but he is still more than capable of drowning someone in their own nightmares. Crane will find out what scares Perkins and he will use it against him over and over again, until his mind is in pieces and his body is screaming for the merciful kiss of death.

But not right now. For now, he will wait.

"I'm rather tired, Dr. Perkins," Crane says quietly. "Would it be alright if we continued this discussion in our next appointment?"

Perkins tries and fails to conceal his disappointment. "Of course." He motions toward the guard to signal the end of the session; the guard steps forward, still wearing the same horrified expression from earlier.

"I want to thank you for cooperation today, Dr. Crane. Keep up the good work and I'll see what I can do about getting you some books soon."

Crane smiles and nods, swallowing a fresh wave of anger.

Later when Crane is alone in his cell, he reflects on the session. It had been apparent within a few minutes of their first meeting that Perkins is unnerved by him, and today's appointment had solidified that.

It will only be a matter of time before he is well and truly frightened of him, and then Crane will strike.

Perkins' screams will the sweetest he has ever heard.


	4. Patient Interview #3

"Patient Interview three with Patient Number 7492, Jonathan Crane. How are you tonight, Dr. Crane?"

"Alright, I suppose."

Perkins prepares his pen and notepad. "Dr. Crane, tonight I thought we'd discuss-"

"Actually, Dr. Perkins, I have something I'd like to share with you. I've been thinking about it often, and I believe talking to you may help."

"Of course, Dr. Crane." _Yes. This is what he's been waiting for._ _ **The good stuff.**_ "What's on your mind?"

Crane's eyes bore into Perkins. "My first," he says quietly.

_Oh_. Perkins wasn't expecting that. "Your first...lover?"

Crane sets his jaw with annoyance. _Leave it to this bumbling idiot to miss the bigger picture_. " _No_ ," he replies, voice dripping agitation. "The first person I tested my toxin on."

Perkins' breath catches in his throat. _Even better_.

"Your first victim?"

"If that's the terminology you choose to use, then yes."

"What term do you prefer, Dr. Crane?"

Crane smiles. "Enlightened."

An all-too-familiar chill runs down Perkins' spine. "Enlightened?"

Crane leans forward, handcuffs clinking against the table as he places his hands in his lap.

"I had been working on my toxin for years before I entertained the notion of actually testing it on a human being. I used lab rats, of course, but after a time their results became repetitive and useless. I knew that in order to truly test my toxin's potential I would need to use it on a person, but then there was the problem of finding a test subject in addition to a time and place for the experiment.

"When I worked at the asylum I came into contact with all sorts of undesirables—I'm sure you're quite familiar with that. After I while I could tune them out, if I ever bothered to listen at all. I suppose you could say that I was desensitized, but truthfully I just quit paying attention. I sat in the interview room, I took the notes, and I gave them prescriptions, but my mind was always on my true work.

"Until I met _him_."

Perkins swallows. "Your first test subject?"

Crane nods.

"I had encountered patients who took joy in harming others more times than I could possibly count. But this man was different. He liked to _brag._ He would sit there wearing this repulsive grin while going over every detail of his crimes. He'd tell me what they looked like, how scared they had been, how he'd hurt them. How much they had cried. And when he looked at me with these beady, cruel eyes and said _'I bet you like hearing about this kinda stuff, huh?'_ , I felt something inside of me snap."

Crane wets his lips. "If there's one thing I can abide, Dr. Perkins, it's a bully."

There is a brief, tension-filled pause before Crane continues.

"I knew then and there that this man was going to be my test subject. One way or another, I was going to use my fear toxin on him. I wanted to make him suffer—not on behalf of those he had harmed, but because he deserved it.

"So I waited. I continued therapy with him and I continued prescribing him medications. In the meantime, I was painstakingly preparing every detail, planning every step.

"One day I discovered that we had a guard working the night shift who could be easily influenced for the right amount of cash. You know the type; intimidating, boorish, only employed at this asylum because they'd been fired from every other job they'd had. Arkham isn't a particularly picky employer when it comes to their guards."

The guard in the corner bristles and the slightest bit of a smirk plays across Crane's lips.

"So I prescribed a much higher dosage for the patient than usual, knowing it would send him into a deep sleep. I had the guard transfer him to the basement—he didn't ask any questions. I don't know if it's because he didn't want to know or because he just didn't care. He strapped him to a gurney using restraints, and left him in one of the old cells the asylum used before the renovations.

And then I came in."

Crane's face betrays no emotion, his voice level and calm; he may as well have been discussing the weather.

"When he finally woke up, he wasn't very happy about his current location. He began to yell at me, to threaten me. He said that he was going to get a lawyer and sue the asylum for violation of his rights, and that he would see to it that I was fired. And there were physical threats, of course.

"He was so caught up in his ranting and raving that he didn't even notice that I had a syringe in my hands until I'd already plunged it into his arm.

"When I injected the lab rats with toxin, the fear overtook them within seconds. It took about a minute for the patient to feel anything, during which he continued to threaten me.

"The change was quite visible; his eyes widen, his lips curled. It was very apparent that this man was becoming rapidly more frightened by the second. His obscenities and threats turned to screams of terror. He began to thrash around on the gurney, bound underneath the restraints.

"At this point, I approached him and leaned forward so that my face was inches above his. I remembering asking him if this was what his victims sounded like. He looked up at me with his red, tear-streaked face, and he just looked so pathetic. So pathetic and _weak_. And _I_ had made him that way."

There is a moment of silence before Perkins asks, "what happened to the patient?"

"I waited until he'd passed out and then had the guard bring him up until his cell. I gave him some medicine to make his memory hazy. Since my toxin was in its initial rudimentary stage, he was left with some lingering effects. In his later sessions he was quiet, withdrawn. He certainly didn't brag anymore," Crane replies, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.

"Where is he now?"

Crane shrugs. "I suppose he's still here. I'm not sure—I don't even remember his name."

Perkins' hands are trembling above his notepad. "You terrorized that man and you don't even remember his name?"

"No. Should I?"

Perkins blinks.

"I suppose that's all for tonight, then?" Crane asks lightly, leaning back in his chair.

Perkins clears his throat. "Just one quick question, Dr. Crane. Why do you refer to your victims as "enlightened"?"

"Because I showed them something that no one else ever can or will—I showed them their deepest, purest fear. They experienced an emotion is it's most primal, unadulterated stage because I allowed them to. Their lives will never be the same again because of it, and for that they are now enlightened."

"You speak as if you've done them a favor."

Crane smiles. "Perhaps I did."

* * *

Later that night when Perkins is lying in bed, he thinks of Crane's story. He thinks about enlightenment and lab rats and an unnamed man lying in an Arkham cell with the distinction of being the first to taste Crane's fear.

He does not sleep. He is afraid of what he might dream.

 


End file.
